Buon Fresco Affresco
by TortiQuercu
Summary: More than you ever wanted to know about frescoes, but just like in Dragon Age: Inquisition... not nearly enough of Solas and Lady Inquisitor Lavellan.


"You can come in now."

Solas looked rather abashed as the mighty Inquisitor opened his door and peeked in.

"Are you done…. whatever it is you're up to, then?" Inquisitor Lavellan smiled warmly. "Who knows what mischief you could be getting into in here. Poking holes into the Veil? Spirits dancing around the rotunda?"

"Hardly," he replied as she quietly entered and closed the door behind her. "I was mixing lime plaster. It's not safe to breathe in." He gestured at a water-dampened mask that lay discarded on his desk. "I apologize, I wasn't expecting company and I didn't have a spare mask. It's not my desire to deny you anything."

She proceeded to his side and smoothly threaded her arm into his. "If you're trying to be charming, it's working. If you're busy, though, I can come back later."

Solas turned quickly and folded his arms around her. "Absolutely not," he insisted emphatically. "Actually, you're exactly what I needed. Care to assist, Inquisitor?"

Her lips twitched into a grin as she gazed up at him. "What exactly am I assisting with, Apostate?"

"The _intonaco_."

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow and the tall hedge mage smirked at her. He pulled away and guided her over to a table beside the wall. "You know, I rarely let anyone observe a fresco, let alone contribute," he informed her. "But I'm feeling a sudden need for inspiration today."

She looked down at the multitude of assorted pots, tools and brushes laid out on the table. Her brow furrowed. "Solas, are you serious?" she asked in a small voice.

"Invariably," he replied in solemnity. "Or so I've been told."

"You made Banon stand by the door when he wanted to watch you paint. And Gatsi says that you all but threw him out when he tried to observe."

"Gatsi was practically breathing in my ear," Solas sighed. "And he smelled like pickled herring. You are neither Banon nor Gatsi, you are my heart."

He picked up a shiny trowel and a square board with a handle on the bottom. "This is called a hawk," he said, handing her the board. "It holds the plaster as you apply it. Today, we're doing the _intonaco_… the thin layer upon which we will paint."

The Inquisitor stared at the empty hawk board, frozen in panic. "Solas, no," she exclaimed in distress. "I… I can't paint. I've never plastered! Are you mad? Can't we find some demons to slaughter instead? Something easier for me to manage?"

He laughed richly, the sound causing a warmth to bloom in her chest and the fear to subside slightly. "Vhenan, I promise I will guide you." He scooped a ladle full of milky white plaster onto the hawk. "Don't tip it," he warned. "_Intonaco_ is mixed thin. Here, take the towel. We'll work on this mural, right here."

Nervously, she stepped up to the wall beside the table. Her eyes raced over the mural, noting a rough layer of recent plaster already added and some red lines sketched expansively upon it. "What are you painting here?" she asked, trying to extrapolate the design from the red marks.

"I'm not sure yet," the mage answered airily. "Obviously I already have an overall theme in the rotunda, and I'm quite attached to it."

The Inquisitor rolled her eyes, almost too embarrassed to look at the existing frescoes depicting her triumphs across Thedas. "You're a hopeless romantic, Solas."

"Hope_ful_ romantic, I assure you."

She looked up at him through her long eyelashes. "Hmmm. Perhaps we can do something about that."

"I look forward to it," he smiled. "But the plaster is mixed. There is no turning back now. It must be painted while wet." He shifted behind her and gently took her hand with the trowel, guiding it into the thin plaster on her board. "We spread on top of the _arriccio_, the base layer…" he lifted their hands up together, smoothing the plaster across the wall, "over the _sinopia_, the red lines I've already sketched out."

Solas snaked his free arm around her narrow waist and pressed his lips beside her ear. "The _intonaco_ should be light and smooth, a feather's touch across the surface," he breathed, setting her pulse to race. "We add the pigment to this layer, but the character of the _arriccio_ should be allowed to come through.

She dipped her trowel back into the plaster, his warm hand still firm on top of hers, and spread a vast swath of plaster across the wall. "So it's like the Veil, then," she murmured.

His arm around her waist tightened. "How so?" he asked, his voice went rough at her ear.

"Well, in this plane, we're the obvious impression… the pigment, the picture. But where the veil is thin, you'll see the Fade coming through. That's the _arriccio_. The texture is what really makes the fresco, isn't it?"

His hand had stopped moving along with hers, she looked back at him. He was staring at her, an expression of wonder on his face.

"….Solas?"

"You are the most unexpected source of wisdom I have ever met, daughter of Lavellan," he pronounced in amazement, causing her cheeks to flush. "You humble me."

"It was just a thought," the blushing elf replied, applying another stroke of plaster. "Banon thought it so strange that you would be a secret master of this art, but no…. it makes perfect sense to me. Of course you, of all people, understand the beauty of these layers."

His hand froze again on top of hers, stopping her as she reached for more plaster. He swiftly plucked the trowel and hawk away from her and dumped them casually on the table with a clatter. With a quiet growl, he pulled her against him and she eagerly tilted her face up to meet his lips. She twined her hands around his neck and ran her fingers across the smooth skin of his head, exulting as he shivered. He pulled away from her with a low moan.

"History will never believe what a determined temptress this oh-so-holy Herald truly was," he chided her as she beamed at him.

"But the spirits will remember," she teased. He responded by nuzzling at her throat. "Aren't we ruining the plaster, though?" she breathed, closing her eyes and stifling a whimper.

"Vhenan…" he murmured against her skin. "Let me show you a _mezzo-fresco_, an alternate technique used when the _intonaco_ is almost dry…"

"Won't it stand out as different?"

He straightened with a heart-stopping, languid grace and gently pushed several strands of her hair behind her ear. "Yes," he smiled. "But I have seen much, and thus you must trust me, that the things that are different, the ones that stand-out? Those are the most beautiful. It will be treasured for its rarity, just as you are unique, and I find myself treasuring you beyond imagining."

The Inquisitor laughed. "I mentioned you were charming, right?"

"I believe you did, yes. Is it working?"

"Without a doubt."

"Excellent. Then while the _intonaco_ dries, let me show you precisely how hopeful a romantic I am."

She spread her hands across his broad chest, enjoying how his heart thumped underneath her fingers. "Mmmm. How long until the plaster is dry enough?"

"Hours. How long do you figure until Josephine comes looking for you?"

"Oh, there is a delegation from the Free Marches here. So… hours."

Solas wrapped his arms around her and scooped her up against his chest. She folded her legs around him and leaned in, lightly running her lips along the curve of his jaw. "Delightful," he sighed. He carried her smoothly towards his chambers. "Because I'm _very_ hopeful, Vhenan. Very hopeful indeed."


End file.
